The Olympic Addendum Pt 2 - What About Bob?

Times at HQ were tense.

It was us vs the Russians, in a loser go/stay home Olympic fight card. It appeared as if our team of destiny might reach its very shortened and painful destiny that night, the night of the quarter final. Sure the Canadians had had an extra game to fine tune things. (A very decisive "W" garnered at the expense of the Germans.) But here was the end boss of end bosses showing up a few levels early. Would Team Canada have enough power ups in its reserves? And enough to survive the ensuing rounds?

The Skip, the Mate, and walked down to a neighbourhood lounge, formerly known as the Jupiter. Row seating, consisting of couches and lounge chairs in front of a massive projection screen, had been arrange. This joint is not usually a sports bar, reminiscent of another haunt that has been home to many of our shenanigans.

Shades of Le Pistol. The thought added a very slight but welcome relief to the sheer epic enormity of what we were about to witness. Canada/Russia in Olympic elimination. Awesome. And as it should be.

The puck dropped. The place lit up. And we perched on the sharpened skate blade for what seemed like an eternity. At only 2:21 in, Getzlaf put one in and the former Jupiter erupted as if it were caught in the centre of the celestial eye itself. So far so good. But no room to relax, not for a second.

Then Boyle got one.

Then Nash.

3 nil, half way though the first and the lounge, as well as the rest of the lower mainland and nation I'm sure, were all stunned. Ovechkin? Nowhere to be found. Malkin? Out partying with Muk Muk. The Canadians had done the unthinkable and were systematically dismantling the Russians.

How? To play platitudes, we were playing "our game." Driving to the net. Shooting. Leaving the fancy pants and excessive cycling gear in the dressing room. It was great.

However, we couldn't get ahead of ourselves. Dmitri Kalinin netted one to make it 3-1. Having watched far too many Canucks games over the years I knew that there was still no escape from the mists of complacency that routinely swirl around GM Place, often managing to seep in. Especially with Bob between the pipes.

I did the obligatory mental flash forward to a CBC scenario in which Luongo, head down, voice low, eyes glazed, tries to muster up an explanation for how we let a 3-0 lead evaporate, and why we were done in the QF's again. I braced for its bitter, bitter potential.

But then Morrow scored with less than two minutes to go in the first, and that thought was immediately disintegrated amongst the cheers of the rowdy, boisterous J-patrons.

We were joined by the Skip's compadre, James. And for the rest of the match, we all maintained. The goals, as well as the pitchers kept coming. Although more than pleased with the flurry of goals, we remained resolute. The Russians managed to muster up a couple more. Each time they did it felt like the starting point of the "collapsing Bob" scenario described above.

The Skip: I don't like this.

Me: You're not going to beat the Russians without bleeding.

Whilst the score was now 7-3 in the third and the place was starting to anticipate the semis, we remained on guard for thee. Up until the final minute of the game, the Skip held the fort, refusing to become swept up in any preemptive partying. Which proved to be a wise game plan as we would soon learn.

When 00:59 finally hit, it was show time at the J-corral. Everyone was standing. Everyone was cheering. When the clock finally ran out, everyone had in orbit. We had done it. We had survived, vanquishing the mighty Russians. It felt like we had joined those that watched the '72 Series and '87 Canada Cup in a latest chapter great Canadian hockey history book.

To make things even better, the cameras immediately went to Whistler where our two gal bobsled team, Kaillie Humphries and Heather Moyse, were en route to picking up our latest gold. Our squad finished our pitchers and prepared to hit the streets. Thus, sign making was the only logical next course of action.

We had two placards. The Mate's sang the praises of the Canadian Women's gold. Mine was a double entendre, "What about Bob?" as I was still in shock, not only be the decisive win, but by Luongo's stellar performance in an elimination game. He had just climbed out of the Maniwaki bad books with authority.

We darted down Davie St. (which was surprisingly subdued) and hit Granville. With signs hoisted high, the Skip, Mate and I marched down Granville St. dead centre, hooting, hollering and high fiving everyone we passed. Random pockets of red clad hockey fans stormed down the streets and celebrated. Everyone was so buzzed. Although it was only the quarters, it felt like we all just won gold. I allowed myself a brief look forward to a possibility that scenario. And was nearly blinded by the sheer impact of such a notion.

The lull at the centre of the Games, created by the US loss, and a string of Canadian near misses had dissipated. Although Team Canada handily beat the Germans the day before, this victory announced that Canada was back and wasn't going to go quietly. It was the TSN turning point of The Games. The hockey team, the athletes, the fans...we were all back on board. Ack, I don't want to say it, so I won't, so let's just say we were all singing that damn song.

We wound down our celebratory lap with another pitcher at a local saloon. Our roster was expanded. We all weighed in on the match while keeping an eye on the Slovaks and Swedes to see who we'd face in the next bracket...